


Practice.

by Azirashell_Ascendant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, From the junk pile, HEY YOU, Just post if you can hear me, M/M, can i be seen at all?, is there anybody (out) there?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 20:29:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20494871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azirashell_Ascendant/pseuds/Azirashell_Ascendant
Summary: Azirashell had lost her paper, and she was going to start crying again for a few hours.This was a test to see if I could reverse engineer what happened to a rather important post. It looks like I fixed it! Now, if I could only figure out what I did. ...





	Practice.

**Author's Note:**

> Still learning, but I think I have done something awful. My Magnificent Octopus has vanished. 
> 
> However, you have to laugh a _little_^_^ My treasured darling won't show up; and this sad drabble has been made immortal. Still, while it's here, I think I'll try to cheer it up a little ^•^ ^•^

They woke up alone, wondering when they had fallen asleep. Reality had reset. Aziraphale's armchair was meltingly comfortable, Crowley decided, closing eyes again. _I won't call. Aziraphale wouldn't know what to do with a cellphone if it colourfully metaphored him. We'll just meet up where we always do._

At that moment, Aziraphale was studying Crowley's imposing desk (complete with..throne?) with barely suppressed amusement. He couldn't even begin to guess its provenance. He had already giggled loud and long over the pajamas he'd woken up in.

He circled, Crowley-like, taking it in from every angle. "Could it be a souvenir?" He wondered out loud. Aziraphale was just about to give the throne a try; sprawling those long legs over one side, as he imagined Crowley would have done.

Then he remembered the houseplants.

"Oh, you must be so thirsty," Aziraphale crooned to them as he hunted for the mister. No luck. He eventually had to give up and carefully tip water into their pots. 

On his way down the stairs, Aziraphale carefully practiced what he thought of as Crowley's sexy slither. He nearly fell twice. _Maybe, when I put his glasses on, no one will see me?_ But then, Aziraphale closed his eyes and filled his senses with last night. Ahh, there it is. He tried on a cynical grin. It felt good: suave, dangerous, _cool._ He swaggered out into the sunlight.

There stood the Bentley; beautifully restored, gleaming like new. He spent a moment tenderly examining it, before hailing a cab.

Crowley was still wandering among the books. Every few shelves, he would stroke a few of them gently. A collection of bright red adventure stories arrested his attention.

_"Those are new."_

He was almost late to the rendezvous; Aziraphale had already discovered an ice cream cart. Crowley received a vanilla flake that he stared at, nonplussed. They chatted sotto voce, reassuring each other how beautifully their prized possessions had been restored. Crowley groped for a word; Death called it out to him genially.

And then all the forces of Heaven and Hell descended upon them.


End file.
